


Walkers Don't Speak French

by ittybittyscorpion



Category: Hannibal (TV), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Multi, Walkers (Walking Dead)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-29 16:53:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13931280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ittybittyscorpion/pseuds/ittybittyscorpion
Summary: This is my first semi-multifandom fanfiction. Hannibal Lecter or any other canon NBC characters will not appear; this is strictly my Hannibal OC placed into the TWD fandom! Enjoy. <3





	Walkers Don't Speak French

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first semi-multifandom fanfiction. Hannibal Lecter or any other canon NBC characters will not appear; this is strictly my Hannibal OC placed into the TWD fandom! Enjoy. <3

Georgia heat is unlike no other — especially lying on black asphalt in the middle of what one can only assume is summer, otherwise known as hell. It blinds whatever has vision. Missus Lecter being one — but she cannot bring herself to move or even shift, clinging to the road like it has value. But it does not. It does not because this is where he abandoned her. This is where she lost all there was after their lives went to shit, fending off whatever had meat on its bones because it was something they could salvage. This is it.  
Yet something rouses in the distance that forces her to turn over, and she screams at the contact between her chest and the concrete underneath. Whatever comes toward her hisses, and every move altered to escape wears down to fate: this is the end. This is the end because her hands are bound and whoever it is that has come from wherever kicks her back over and laughs. They laugh, and she winces at the sun, unable to defend herself. 

“Roadkill,” timbre breaks the tension, and yet the sight of him revives it. Leather jacket and a bat that’s more or less decorated. “Holy shit — is she fuckin’ _alive?_ ”  
Leather Jacket stops next to her, the toe of a boot mere inches from her face. She is more than tempted to lean forward to brace her head on it but decides it evidently is not a good idea considering the barbed wire’s . . . fresh coating of crimson. 

“What the fuck are you fucking waiting on? Fucking untie her, you pricks.” 

A series of grunts travel around the lingering duo before one kicks her back over and the other crouches to do as he was told. She clambers to make it to her knees, and it seems it startles Leather Jacket, because the bat is held out in front of her. 

“I have been lying in the road for God knows how long. I cannot run even if I want to.”

“Why the fuck’re you out here, doll face? A hot piece of hell like yourself is mighty fuckin’ vulnerable here,” Leather Jacket notes, rousing a snort from the woman. 

“I had a community. My brother became a little disoriented . . . he took over and left me for dead, thus here we are.”

The man gives a curt nod to one of his men, and they saunter back the way they came, toward what she recognizes, now, as armored trucks. 

“How fuckin’ pathetic.” 

“I am not — ” the bat’s sudden, violent motion cuts her off, but it comes to rest over his shoulder instead of colliding with Elisabeth. “ — pathetic.”

“No, you’re not, but your brother is.” Leather Jacket’s friend comes back with a bottle, and once he’s handing it over, the man with the bat is handing it to her. 

The water is gone within seconds, and she resorts to lying on her back again, heavy-lidded eyes staring up at the saving grace above her. He grins, and femme cackles. 

“So, princess, what’s your name? Have to have something just as fine as that damn body and face of yours.” 

“Elisabeth. Thank you.”

“Thank me later. You’re coming with me.”

✽ ━━ ✽ ━━ ✽

She flanks Leather Jacket, being given looks of utter envy and perhaps even _hatred_ while his people drop to their knees. She feels inferior to them, each being casting her nothing more than either bared teeth or refined frowns. The man who rescued her turns to face her but his paces continue, walking backward with his unoccupied hand extending to emphasize his authority here, and somehow, the woman's lips muster a cruel snarl of their own. He must be amused, because suddenly his laughter barks through the silence before he turns to face the way he was walking previously; his hand gestures for her to follow him through a door, so she does.  
The entryway closes behind them, and for a moment, Elisabeth allows her panic to swallow her — but her savior's hand grazes her own. He gives her that grin again.

“You've got a damn good selection for your new life. Now, since I didn't have to take your shit,” he pauses while kicking back in a chair fixed at the head of a table, “you get to choose for yourself, princess. The Sanctuary is a fine-ass place if you work hard enough. You eat, you sleep, you get to fuckin’ live. Either you work for me or you, dollface, get to be my wife.”

“Wife?” she swallows, moving to take place beside him. 

“My wives get their share of any and every fuckin’ thing they want. They don't work for shit, but they get a _**HELL**_ of a lot of . . . _presents._ ”

“He killed him,” pours from her before she can consider a response. “My brother, Mathis, thought my husband got in the way of my authority in the community. He thought if he killed Hannibal . . . I would give him more power. I was on a run when he killed him, and when I got back, one of the women met me at the gates in a panic . . . he was dead before I got to him.”

“Sweet hell, princess,” Leather Jacket leans onto his knees after placing the bat on the table. He reaches toward her, and she flinches. “Hey — calm the fuck down, you’re safe here.”

“I’ll do it.” She shakes but I heave myself heaves herself forward into his caresses, and he welcomes her.

It feels strange to rely on someone after so long, to feel safe in a stranger’s arms, but this man offers more than anyone has offered her since Hannibal’s death. Elisabeth gradually persuades herself that, in due time, she will possess every last thing she needs to tear the power from her brother — even if it means somehow using her savior.


End file.
